


somewhere, you'll find your heart

by starblessed



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Babysitting, F/M, Parenting Negotiations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 00:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13915167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: Dmitry stares at the creature as if he’s never seen a child in his life. Bouncing her newest discovery in her arms, Anya beams.“You don’t have to say anything else,” he declares. “I just... need you to tell me this baby isn’t ours.”





	somewhere, you'll find your heart

**Author's Note:**

> for a request on tumblr, ft dimya and parenthood!

“What,” he says, “is that.”

It’s not a question. It’s not even curious — Dmitry is just fed up, and more than a little exhausted. By now, he’s figured out that he can never let himself be surprised by Anya, because she defies expectations at every turn; but she just makes it so _hard_ sometimes.

This time, she’s not speaking perfect French or whipping out diamonds. This time, all Anya has is...

“A baby?” he mutters, staring at the thing in Anya’s arms like it’s a three-headed monster. The little child, with its bald head and squinty eyes, closes its tiny fist around a lock of Anya’s hair. Drool bubbles over its lip; its fat cheeks are deep red, like summer cherries.

Dmitry stares at the creature as if he’s never seen a child in his life. Bouncing her newest discovery in her arms, Anya beams.

“This is Guillaume,” she declares, and tilts the baby for Dmitry’s closer inspection. “Isn’t he an absolute angel?”

Angel is a bold statement. Dmitry is sure he can’t even pronounce the kid’s name, let alone make any presumptions on his character. For all he knows, Guillaume could be the sort of kid who chews everything, or vomits like a fountain, or screams all night long. He could be the antichrist. He looks down at the chubby baby, and had to fight the urge to run out of the apartment screaming.

He would have been less surprised to come home and find Anya doing cartwheels in the kitchen, or standing casually on the dining room table. Hell, finding Vlad and Lily in the throes of passion on their couch (again) would have been a less unpleasant surprise than coming home to _this._

For a moment, all he can do is stare. Anya’s delighted expression shifts to expectancy, then to annoyance. When Dmitry is able to open his mouth, he closes it just as fast. What can he even do here?

“You don’t have to say anything else,” he declares after a moment, holding up his hands. “I just... _need_ you to tell me it’s not ours.”

Somehow, despite her armful of baby, she’s still able to smack him. Instantly, his shoulder goes numb, and he lets out a furious yelp.

“Of course he’s not ours, are you an idiot? How could you say something like that?”

“You’re holding a baby!” he exclaims, holding up his hands. “It’s a reasonable fear!”

Her eyes roll so far in the back of her head that he worries they’ll get stuck there. “He belongs to Madame Delon, from downstairs? She lives in the apartment just below us. Her sister’s about to have her baby, and she had to get there fast, so she needed someone to watch _petit Guillaume_ until she got back. I volunteered.”

The realization that they have _not_ spontaneously adopted a child tempers Dmitry’s shock just enough that his heart rate returns to normal. Once he can breathe again, he is able to acknowledge that his reaction was overblown — babies don’t just materialize out of thin air, after all. They need time to grow.

“Okay. In that case, he’s adorable.” He sidesteps Anya, making his way into the bedroom. “Have fun with that.”

“What? Hey, wait! You’re not going to help?”

“Nope.” He pops the ‘p’, relishing the privilege of no longer having to stare at the baby’s gummy face. “Your offer. Your job. Your responsibility.”

“I said we -“

He cuts her off, turning on his heel, one hand on the bedroom doorknob. One look at his face, and she stops cold. Her brows furrow, lips jutting into a frustrated pout. She can tell he won’t budge for Guillaume.

“I don’t like babies,” he says simply. When she opens her mouth to argue, he cuts her off by turning away again.

Dmitry takes two steps into the bedroom and stops cold. After a few seconds, he back out, and swings the door shut behind him.

“Anya,” he says, and takes a deep breath, “why are there two children asleep in the middle of our bed?

Her face lights up again, and his stomach plunges to his toes. Anya’s smile is more pleasant than it has _any right_ to be. “Oh,” she says, and chuckles. “That’s Gisèle and Jean-Pierre. Did I forget to mention them?”

* * *

It takes Dmitry a very short amount of time to realize that children are a lot like adults — except tinier, more demanding, and meaner.

(He hadn’t thought that was possible.)

Because, as he so emphatically declared, he doesn’t like babies, Anya gets the privilege of handling Guillaume. Meanwhile, Dmitry is tasked with the two tots in his bed.

Gisèle is five, Anya said, and Jean-Pierre is three. They both love giraffes, chicken noodle soup, and are very excited to have a new baby cousin. Jean-Pierre also really, really likes birds. This is obviously all the information she could glean from them in the short time before they both settled down to rest, so Dmitry is on his own.

He hopes they’ll stay asleep until their mother returns, and he’ll be off the hook. As soon as he opens the bedroom door again, he realizes they’ll have no such luck.

“Who are you?” asks Gisèle, propped up in bed with her dark curls askew. Next to her, the little boy rubs his eyes drowsily, peering at Dmitry from half-lidded eyes.

Dmitry takes a hesitant step into the room. Gisèle’s brows furrow in suspicion. “Where’s Mam’selle Anya?”

“Anya is… watching your baby brother,” Dmitry says haltingly. “I’m her friend. Dmitry.”

“Hi,” says Gisèle.

“Hi,” says Dmitry.

“Birds?” says Jean-Pierre.

So that clears things up.

They don’t have any toys in their apartment, so Dmitry scrambles for something to occupy the kids with before they can get out of bed and start wreaking havoc. He tears through the bathroom cabinets, the kitchen, the living room. All the while, Anya lounges on the couch with a babbling baby in her arms. When Dmitry catches her eye, she smirks, taking no small amount of joy in his plight.

“I change my mind,” he says. “I love babies.”

“Nice try,” she retorts, and nods towards the bookshelves in the corner of the living room.

The bookshelves have been fully-stocked since they moved into the apartment. The times are ancient, dusty, and haven’t been touched since the last century at least. Dmitry has no clue what he’s looking for, but manages to find it anyway. Somehow, he digs an old book out of the rows of other old books; as soon as he’s got it in his hands, he knows it’s the right one.

Victorious, he drops it in front of the kids. It’s heavy enough that the entire mattress bounces. Still, there’s no mistaking the painted image on the cover.

“Bird!” Jean-Pierre exclaims gleefully, and throws himself on top of the dusty book.

Gisèle isn’t so easy to please. She looks down at the tome, bored; so Dmitry is back to his mad watch again.

After a few moments of watching Dmitry rush around, not saying more than a murmur to the children, but tearing from room to room to find _anything_ kids might like, Gisèle gets bored. When Dmitry enters the room again, he finds her swinging her legs at the end of the bed, barefoot, in her tiny purple nightgown.

“Are you Mam’selle Anya’s husband?” she asks.

Dmitry drops the pillow he was carrying.

Gisèle watches, unimpressed, as it falls to the ground. When she looks up again, there’s something sharp and dangerously clever in her eyes. “Mam’selle Anya’s not married, though. So you’re living with her out of wedlock!”

Dmitry coughs, bending to lick the pillow up again just to avoid looking at her. When he lifts his head, she’s beaming with victory. She’s got it all figured out.

“How do you know that word?” he demands, pushing the pillow into her lap before she can protest. She shrugs and balances her elbows on it.

“Maman. She tells me all kinds of stuff. You work late, and come home at night, but she doesn’t see you leave in the morning. What do you do? Are you a police officer? I like police officers. They have nice hats. Does Mam’selle Anya have a job too? What does she do? Maman says she comes in and out all the time, but never talks about work. Is she a princess? She looks like a princess.”

Dmitry gapes at her. Gisèle kicks one of her legs up so high, it’s a wonder her knee doesn’t dislocate. She wiggles her bare toes and then grins. “I wanna meet the Queen of France!”

Dmitry really doesn’t any to be the one to tell her this, but France hasn’t had a Queen in over fifty years. He’s not well-versed in history or politics, but he’s certain they don’t have any queens hanging around now, just waiting to meet curious children.

However, something in him is certain that if he says this, he’ll be crushing a little girl’s dreams forever.

The sound of Anya’s lilting hum drifts from the other room. He grits his teeth. She’s having a blissful time, while he’s in here fielding questions from the Five Year Old Inquisition; and if he messes up, he’ll just be making Anya’s day.

He can’t live with that.

When the idea occurs to him, he lights up. Even Gisèle is a little surprised; she draws back, startled, not sure what to make of the sudden grin on his face.

“No queens here,” he tells her. “But how would you like to talk to a real Grand Duchess of Russia?”

* * *

Gisèle has heard of the Romanov family, which surprises Dmitry at first; then again, it’s not such a shock at all. The fall of the Russian royals was big news internationally, and still receives enough press coverage today. It’d be a wonder if a little girl who loves princesses _hadn’t_ heard of them.

Gisèle has seen the same photos Dmitry has (the same photo they have on their living room wall, hanging right next to a portrait of the Dowager Empress): Anya and her sisters, all posing for the camera; Anya, her parents, and all of her siblings, sitting for a royal family-portrait.

As soon as Dmitry brings the picture down from the wall to show her, Gisèle’s face lights up. “Ana-stasia!” she exclaims (mangling the name like a piece of Swiss cheese). “Mam’selle Anya’s Anastasia!”

“Dmitry, what are you doing?” Anya asks, more incredulous than alarmed. Dmitry only has time to smirk at her. The next second, Gisèle is at her knee, peppering her with a thousand questions a minute.

And Dmitry ought to feel bad, he really should, but Anya’s expression is so funny. The rug has been yanked out from under her. She doesn’t know what to say.

“Umm, no, I don’t have a ti— well, yes, I _have_ a tiara, but —“

“Can I wear it? Can I wear it?”

Dmitry gets the tiara out from the box in the closet.

He would feel worse if Gisèle were more intrusive with her questions; there’s still a lot, especially about that last year in captivity, that Anya is unable to talk about. Her childhood with her family is mostly fair game, though, and Gisèle is a classic little girl. She doesn’t care about political intrigue or revolution. She wants to hear about princesses.

“Did you wear fancy dresses?” she asks, carefully balancing the shiny tiara on her head. “Did you go to balls? Did you _dance?”_

“All night long,” Anya confirms, with a hint of amusement. Dmitry isn't surprised she’s taking the girl’s curiosity in good humor; he’s just glad Anya doesn’t get to kick back and watch him do all the work anymore.

“Did you fall in love with a prince?”

Anya’s eyes flicker up to Dmitry. “You know,” she replies, “I’d say I did.”

Gisèle couldn’t be more delighted — the only thing that would impress her more, Dmitry imagines, would be a whole royal parade thrown in her honor. As it is, she’s entranced by getting to talk to a real life Grand Duchess; and Dmitry gets to enjoy seeing Anya play the role of princess.

It’s not something she slips into naturally, not anymore. He and Vlad taught her how to do most of this before it all started to come naturally to her. That poise will always be there; that pride, that dignity, that particular composure fit for a princess are all things she was raised with. It’s like riding a bike, he supposes — you never forget it. But that Anya that is comes into frequent conflict with the Anastasia that was; often, even acting as one of the many anonymous deposed Russians in Paris can be a challenge for Anya. If she had to fill the role of Grand Duchess Anastasia all the time, she’s be exhausted. (Maybe it was a good thing that they decided to run away with each other, then.)

Seeing Anya in full princess mode is… not something he gets to see often. There’s something charming about it. This graceful royal is the same one who chased him down at the train station in a red gown; she is far from the goofy, obnoxious Anya he knows. Yet they are both one in the same, and the contrast fascinates him.

Anya bounces the baby in her lap, and flashes a pearly smile at the little girl wearing her tiara. _Yes,_ he thinks, _she is definitely a princess._

And somehow she’s ended up with him. Funny how life works out sometimes.

A sudden noise from the door startles them; Dmitry is taken aback to see Jean-Pierre standing there, rubbing his eyes with one balled up fist.

“Too big,” he says, sounding petulant. “I wannit. Birds. Too big.”

It takes Dmitry a second to realize he’s talking about the book. He runs back into the bedroom to get it. By the time he comes out, the little boy has already curled up on the couch, his head nestled into Anya’s side.

There is something about the sight of Anya with all three of them that stops Dmitry cold in the doorway. He feels his breath grow heavy in his chest. Suddenly, he feels like laughing out loud.

None of the Delon children look like either of them; they are dark complexioned, with bouncy black curls on each of their heads. When Dmitry blinks, however, he sees something different; a little boy with Anya’s blue eyes, a girl with golden hair as messy as Dmitry’s own, a baby with the same nose that Dmitry kisses every night as they lie in bed together…

He blinks his eyes again, and the world slips back into alignment. It was just a dream.

“Dima?” Anya looks up at him, crooking a curious eyebrow.

He shakes off his gaze and smiles, slipping back into the room. “Found it,” he declares, setting the book on the coffee table. Jean-Pierre lets out a yelp of pleasure. “Now. Who wants to hear about birds?”

By the time he’s finished reading the first chapter (which is about as interesting as you’d expect an encyclopedia on birds to be, aside from the nice illustrations) the children aren’t the only ones who’ve nodded off to sleep. Jean-Pierre is nestled against Anya’s side; Gisèle is curled up, head pillowed on her princess’s skirt; and little Guillaume has been dozing for a while now. It is Anya, however — with her head bowed, cheek against her shoulder, hair falling in her face — that brings a smile to Dmitry’s face.

“Sweet dreams,” he mutters, and tucks a blanket around them all.

At least this means he’s got his bed back — and _all_ to himself.

* * *

Madame Delon comes to pick her children up early the next morning. She is glowing and happy, bearing news of a healthy new niece. Despite her early morning blessings, Anya congratulates her with a hug, and offers her a cup of coffee. Madame Delon refuses; she insists on getting the children out of their hair, not wanting to bother them any longer.

“They were perfect,” Anya assures her friend, giving her another _bisous_ on the cheek.

“Yeah,” agreed Dmitry blearily, having to lean against the doorknob to keep his balance. Last night was not as easy as him as it was for Anya and the older kids; Guillaume spent half the night awake, and Dmitry had to stay up with him, bouncing and rocking the baby to make sure he wouldn’t wake Anya and the others. He’s so exhausted that he feels like he’s been run over by a train. “Total angels. We’ll watch them any time.”

Madame Delon smiles; and, bidding the couple one last thanks, she ushers her children away. Guillaume is asleep on her shoulder, drooling. Jean-Pierre sucks his thumb, carrying a picture of a bird (torn out from the ornithology book) in his free hand. Gisèle offers Anya an enthusiastic wave, and even blows kisses at her “like a real princess”. Dmitry has a feeling Anya will be seeing a lot more of her little fan from here on out.

As the door shuts behind them, Anya remarks, “You know she’s going to tell everyone I’m a princess, right?”

“She’s five, and can’t even pronounce your name. We’ll be… fine…” Dmitry smothers a yawn behind his hand. When he shakes it off, he catches sight of Anya’s tiny smile.

“Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Sure,” he replies. “A few hours.”

She chuckles. “Oh, Dima…”

The next thing he knows, he’s back in bed — with Anya curled up at his side. Dmitry certainly can’t say he’s complaining, not when her chin is resting against his chest and there’s a soft pillow behind his head. There are no crying babies, no sacks of lentils, no cold Russian forests. Everything about this moment is drowsy and perfect.

“You know,” he murmurs, “I could see us doing that… someday.”

Anya blinks up at him. “A family? Is that… something you’d want?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah. A family would be nice.”

“We could have a bunch of little Anyas and Dimas running around…” A tiny smile plays across her lips. “We could give them ridiculous nicknames.”

“And tell them stories…”

“And be the best parents in the world.” She lays her cheek against his collarbone. “As good as our parents. Better.”

“Is that something you’d like?”

For a long moment, she doesn’t reply. The question hangs in the air, as uncertain as the wind whipping outside their bedroom window; but that is out there, and they are in here. There is no danger in the question; that’s all it is.

“Maybe,” she finally answers, and pauses. “Yes. I’d like that very much.”

They both have their own reasons to be wary of family — after all, they’ve both lost theirs. They know what a risk opening your heart to people can be.

Still, they’ve done it once before, and found each other. Who’s to say they can’t do it again?

Dmitry tilts his head just enough to plant a kiss on the crown of Anya’s head. She looks up and offers him a sleepy smile.

At least he’s sure of one thing: they’ll make really great parents.


End file.
